Skellig Michael: Footsteps in Time

To understand this place is to dismiss all romantic and mythical notions and replace them with the brutal reality of the 8th Century. Back then, this was a pilgrimage to the edge of the world

Skellig Michael with the South Peak shrouded in mist

Thankfully this is not the 8th Century and we are not sailing to Skellig Michael in a hide-covered boat. Nevertheless, after more than 1300 years a trip out to the UNESCO World Heritage Site remains difficult. The departure point is remote and the landing season short, but most importantly the Atlantic weather and sea conditions can change from day to day which often results in last minute cancellations.

We depart Valentia Island on a calm and overcast morning, out through the Portmagee channel and past the tiny island of Illaunloughan. It bears the remains of a 7th Century monastery that may have been a resting place for exhausted pilgrims before they faced the final leg of their journey to Skellig Michael. Whatever it was it fell into disuse after only two hundred years.

The land slips away and we turn south-west towards two jagged islands eight miles from the mainland. They look thousands of years away. The Skellig Islands broke away from the MacGillycuddy's Reeks 365 million years BP. This was on the eve of the Carboniferous Period when Ireland was in a warm tropical climate somewhere around the latitude of Egypt. The land mass had a long way to go before it reached its present position 25 million years BP. By the end of the last ice age, melting glaciers raised water levels and finally separated the islands from the mainland.

Geological scripture aside, the romantic narrative began much more recently. No one knows for certain when monks first went to Skellig Michael, but in academic circles it’s generally thought to be sometime in the early 8th Century. Some believe St Fionán founded the monastery in the 6th Century, though this has been disputed by historians.

The fabric of Irish culture has been shaped by monastic Ireland, and in particular great intellectual powerhouses such as Clonmacnoise, Clonard and Glendalough. But some early Christians sought a remote and ascetic lifestyle more in keeping with the principles of St Anthony the Great, where getting closer to God meant testing the extremities of human endurance. This ethic was probably why, in the 5th century, St Enda chose to establish his monastery on Inis Mór. You could hardly get more remote than that, at least not until 250 years later when a group of monks stared long and hard at a small splinter of rock far out to sea (sceillec is an ancient Gaelic word for a steep rock or crag). In the 8th Century the bleak and forbidding island was perched entrancingly between life and death. With little embellishment of the imagination it could resemble a finger pointing to heaven. Of course the monks could have opted for an easier life on the mainland, but then half a journey is no journey at all.

No more than a dozen monks lived on the island at any one time, so it’s fair to assume a similar number made the first journey to the island. Today the trip takes about an hour in a small boat, and even in the 8th century it shouldn’t have taken more than two hours if they waited for the right conditions. Sailing Curragh’s had been around for a long time and were ideally suited to the west of Ireland. It’s possible someone brought the monks to the island, leaving them with tools and enough rations to keep them going until they established a steady food source. It’s also likely they would have had some form of boat themselves that could be hauled out of the water in bad weather (there’s evidence of a possible boathouse below the east steps).

Mysticism surrounds Skellig Michael, not least in the fact that it is the beginning of a rhumb line that stretches from Ireland to Israel. This line, with a maximum deviation of 42 miles, connects twelve ecclesiastical sites dedicated to Saint Michael. Almost all are monasteries: Skellig Michael, St Michael's Mount in Cornwall, Mont Saint-Michel in Normandy, Sacra di San Michele in Italy, Chiesa di San Galgano in Italy, Tempio di San Michele di Perugia in Italy, Santuario di San Michele del Gargano in Italy, Delphi in Greece, Island of Delos in Greece, Symi in Greece, Kourion in Cyprus, and Mount Carmel in Jerusalem. Twelve is a recurring number in Christianity. Twelve monks on the island, a ferry that can carry no more than twelve people…the allusion is enticing with more than a little confirmation bias, but there is a sense of pilgrimage in our little cabin as we punch our way through the swell. Even the jagged peaks on the island are beginning to resemble the spires of a cathedral.

Little Skellig

Gannets, lots of them

We make for Little Skellig, the smaller of the islands and an important breeding centre for gannets. It’s June and 60,000 birds are nesting on the bare rock. This gives it a white appearance, visible from the mainland. Some say it’s because of the guano while others claim it’s due to the birds white plumage. From this perspective it’s probably a result of both. Landing is prohibited during the breeding season. In 2020 a team of archaeologists and climbers discovered the remains of a small monastic site that can only be an extreme extension of the monastery on Skellig Michael. Besides the obvious ascetic conclusion, it’s tempting to think this might be some sort of medieval naughty step for monks. Whatever remains of the oratory has long been colonised by nesting birds, but it’s an important discovery in trying to understand the scope of the monks’ determination.

Precarious East Steps above Blind Man’s Cove

There’s just enough time for a tour around Skellig Michael before our allotted landing slot at Blind Man’s Cove. The boat rolls with the swell as it slips slowly past the towering north peak. It looks like a scene from Jurassic Park, or a mythical Hy-Brasil behind a veil of fog. Fine mist moves across the south peak as if to validate our imagination. The island stretches 218 metres (715ft) above sea level and the two distinctive and highly unusual jagged peaks make it look more monolith than island. There are three access points from the sea: Blind Man’s Cove, Blue Cove and South Landing (just south-west of Cross Cove). The monks built steps from the base of all three, presumably so they would have three leeward (depending on prevailing wind and wave patterns) landing and ascent options. Looking up the precipitous walls of rock leads to the inevitable conclusion that what they achieved here is unparalleled anywhere in Ireland. Somewhere up there is a monastery in the clouds.

The jagged spires of Skellig Michael

There are no level sections at the top and the monks had to construct a series of terraces with retaining walls (the terrace containing the small oratory is entirely artificial). Lives must have been lost as they straddled impossible little ledges on makeshift scaffolds or suspended platforms. Of course they could have built lower down and Christ’s Saddle seems an obvious place, but if the saints taught them anything it was that God was unlikely to reward an easy option.

We move around to the west side of the island where the second of two lighthouses is located on a southern spur. Both became operational in 1826. The upper light was decommissioned in 1870 after the establishment of a lighthouse on the Blasket island of Inishtearaght. Its remains can still be seen to the north-west. The Lower Lighthouse is 175 feet above high water and looks heavily fortified. It must have seen some lively action considering the glass of the Fastnet (160ft above sea level) was breached by a rogue wave in 1985. Two keepers lost their lives on Skellig: one fell to his death while cutting grass for his cow shortly after the light entered service, and the other disappeared never to be seen again. The lighthouse became automated in 1987 after 160 years of continuous occupation by keepers.

Lower Lighthouse

The Gannets are like missiles dive-bombing the boat. We continue to the landing place at Blind Man’s Cove. The steep rock face is alive with gulls, guillemots and fulmars perched precariously with their chicks on impossible little ledges. We step onto a pier that was constructed somewhere above the monks original landing place. The walled path winds its way around the east and south of the island as we join the queue of people making their way around Cross Cove and towards the beginning of our ascent up the south steps. The Cove is covered in part to protect people from falling rock. A guide stationed below the steps offers a short history of the island. I think about the ascent and look up for reassurance. There isn’t any. How could those industrious monks, laden with tools, food and shelter climb from one perilous ledge to another with just their faith to guide them? Their inspiration was to climb closer to God, mine is just to survive.

We begin the ascent. The monks built these steps, all 618 of them, only after clambering up slippery rock in medieval footwear. At the first level I have to stop and take a picture of a weathered and worn rock called the Wailing Woman, so called by one of the lighthouse keepers. The views across to Little Skellig, the Kerry mainland and on to West Cork are spectacular. On we go, plodding upwards, not daring to look down the vertical side and taking it in turns to go on the inside or outside as we pass people coming down. Two people have been killed in the past ten years and both at the same spot. At least it’s not raining. We make it to the saddle and take time to inspect the final route up a perilous looking series of steps. To our left a ribbon of even more hazardous steps lead to the Hermitage and the out-of-bounds south peak. My head is crammed with doom-laden adjectives screaming to get out.

Christ’s Saddle from the upper level (note the steps opposite leading to the Hermitage on the South Peak)

We finally make it to the top after one last demanding push. For some absurd and melodramatic reason I think of John Bunyan’s Christian. Perhaps every visitor is a pilgrim in their own right: adventure, history, birdlife, Star Wars or because Skellig Michael is on a bucket list. Whatever the reason, nothing can prepare you for this monumental achievement. Here sits a monastery on a nest site atop a piece of rock protruding from the Atlantic Ocean. I think of the Burj Khalifa and wonder if this is all we have achieved in 1300 years.

The signature buildings of Skellig Michael are clocháins, commonly known as beehive huts. Corbeled roofs resist the worst of Atlantic storms, keeping the interior dry even today. The Large Oratory presiding over the monks’ graveyard has walls almost 4ft thick and an inverted boat-shaped roof. Two gardens, lower and upper, are testament to the importance of vegetables in the monks’ survival. They had access to fish, seasonal seabirds and eggs which were vital in providing protein to their diet.

Clocháns - dry-stone huts with a corbel roofs

Eastern end of lower monks’ garden

Relentless Atlantic storms circled the monastery walls like the Trumpets of Jericho. Time and again the monks rebuilt. Even after they departed for the mainland, successive generations of monks and pilgrims were required to carry out essential reconstruction work. Remedial work was undertaken in the 19th Century by the lighthouse-builders. They occupied some of the structures. So too the lighthouse-keepers, who used the large oratory as a church. Major work, however, was initiated by the Office of Public Works in 1978, and the largely intact monastery we see today is thanks to substantial excavation and restorative work carried out between 1986 and 2010. In fact, due to earth movement and pressure on retaining walls, the terraces would probably have collapsed altogether without some form of intervention. This occurred in the 19th Century when the south wall of the inner chamber collapsed on top of the cell once occupied by the lighthouse-builders (see Eastern end of lower monks’ garden photo).

The monk's graveyard in front of the Large Oratory

We sit down in the upper-garden to eat our lunch. This place presents more questions than answers, even with the available canon of academic literature. I came here believing the radius of the monks’ world had shrunk to the circumference of a small rock in the Atlantic Ocean. Now I’m standing on top of their world, where to the east they could watch the sun rising above the mountains of Kerry, and to the west the skies so red it must have looked as if a fire raged on the other side of the world. Of course not all views were so welcome, especially when the dreaded Norsemen arrived in the wake of their reputation. Two Viking raids are recorded: the first, 821, resulted in the abduction of the abbot, Etgal. According to the Annals of Inisfallen, he died of starvation three years later.

South Entrance

More than 500 years after they first settled on Skellig the monks began to spend winter months on the mainland. This was partly due to the Synod of Ráth Breasail which oversaw a transition from a monastic to a diocesan parish-based church. The 1100’s also saw an invasion of powerful Continental monastic orders, such as the Cistercians and Benedictines (the former had a significant influence on Ireland), which threatened to overwhelm non-episcopal monasteries. The pressure mounted when the Normans followed in the 12th Century: part of Henry 11s justification for invasion was the reputed Papal Laudabiliter which was designed to bring the Irish Church into line with Rome’s Gregorian Reforms. Many questions remain regarding the timeline of the final transition to the priory at Ballinekelligs, but considering the Augustinians arrived with Henry 11 in 1172 and did not establish their first foundation in Dublin until 1280, it’s unlikely to have been much before the 14th Century. The monks eventually merged with the Augustinian’s and continued to use Skellig Michael for pilgrimage and retreat in the summer months. It remained in their hands until the 16th Century.

Decent from the upper level

Decent from Christ’s Saddle

Atlantic Puffin

It’s time to make our way down and rendezvous with our ferry. The decent is more dangerous than the ascent and not helped by having to look down. I have to pause every now and again to take pictures of Puffins loitering about outside their burrows. Though the privilege of being here is overwhelming, it’s still a relief to make it down the final few steps and strike out along the path to Blind Man’s Cove. The island has taken hold of me and I know it will never let go. On the way out I tried to imagine what the monks saw when they too made the first journey to this wilderness beyond the edge of civilisation. In that respect it hasn’t changed, but in building a monastery for the glorification of God, they also created a shrine to the sheer blood-mindedness of human endeavour. And they were armed with nothing but faith, courage and tenacity. It’s difficult to step off the island not knowing if you’ll ever come back. I know I will.

“But for the magic that takes you out, far out of this time and this world, there is Skellig Michael ten miles off Kerry coast, shooting straight up seven hundred feet sheer out of the Atlantic. Whoever has not stood in the graveyard and their beehive oratory does not know Ireland through and through.”  George Bernard Shaw

Time to leave

© David O’Neill 2021

Carbury Castle and the Bog of Allen

Ireland’s west coast counties are as rich in culture as they are in dramatic scenery. But midland counties are no poor relations, and they lack nothing in historical monuments and culturally important sites. Arguably the most famous are Newgrange and Clonmacnoise, but turn off any motorway and it won’t be long before you come across some real gems. One little expedition took us off the M4 not far from Dublin.

Carbury Castle, Co. Kildare

The land on which the castle stands formerly belonged to a branch of the Southern Uí Néill, and the name Carbury relates to a member of that family. The Norman expeditions that took place between 1169 and 1171 were certainly empowered by battle proven knights, mounted archers and well armoured heavy cavalrymen, but their greatest technological advantage was the motte-and-bailey fortification. They were easy to build, required unskilled labour, and as footholds they allowed the Normans to raid and subdue local areas before building more permanent stone castles.

Carbury Castle began as a motte-and-bailey and it was constructed by Meilyr FitzHenry, a high-born Norman knight, after he was granted the land by Strongbow in the 12th Century. The raised earthen motte is very obvious and would have provided excellent observation over the land it claimed. Sometime in the 14th Century the land passed into the de Bermingham family and they built the first stone castle. After the Reformation and subsequent plantation of nearby Offaly and Laois by Mary 1, the land came into the hands of the Colley family. They extended and modernised the castle, which included the conspicuous chimney stacks and large mullioned windows. The castle was attacked and badly damaged during the Nine Years War, and the title was eventually passed, via marriage, to the Pomeroy family. They abandoned Carbury sometime in the 18th Century. Thus ended the history of Carbury Castle, from its motte-and-bailey origin to the ruins of a fortified manor house that still commands an imperious view of the surrounding Kildare countryside.

The Bog of Allen stretches across six counties and covers almost 1000 square kilometres. Its origins began around 10,000 BP, from shallow lakes left behind by melting glaciers. Despite industrial harvesting, the bog is a unique environment that supports entire ecosystems of flora and fauna. Thanks to preservative qualities in peat there remains an important archaeological record, such as bog bodies, dugout canoes, jewellery, bog butter and ancient wooden walkways that allowed safe crossing (the word bog comes from the Irish word bogarch, which means soft). The bog also contains a valuable environmental record in pollen and plant fossils. Industrial peat harvesting ended in 2019, and Bord na Móna will cease making peat briquettes in 2024.

The Archbishop and the Showgirl

In 1967 the owners of the recently opened Mount Brandon Hotel thought they had found an innovative idea for publicity. Little did they know they were about to rattle the ghosts of the Holy Inquisition.

Early image of Jayne Mansfield (owlapps.net) encapsulating the iconography of the Hollywood Golden Years

Jayne Mansfield became a star towards the latter end of the Hollywood Golden Years. She was an actor and singer with a sultry girl-like voice that sounded suspiciously like Marylyn Munroe. In many ways they were similar: for a time they were both contracted to Twentieth Century-Fox, allegedly had affairs with JFK and Robert Kennedy and featured in adult magazines Playboy and Penthouse. But Mansfield was determined to carve out her own legacy and become a successful actor. Her best known film, The Girl Can’t Help It, went on to become one of the biggest hits of 1956. Shortly afterwards she accepted a starring role in the film adaptation of John Steinbeck’s The Wayward Bus, which was a strong indication that she wished to be taken seriously.

Mansfield never quite reached the apogee of Munroe, but she won a Golden Globe in 1957 and three years later she was awarded a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Even now she remains one of the most famous screen icons of 1950s, albeit with a persistent legacy of publicity generating wardrobe malfunctions. Contemporary culture can raise as many anachronistic eyebrows as it likes, but Mansfield was an intelligent and independent woman with a reputed IQ of 163. Besides having a busy professional life, she was the mother of five children, spoke several languages and played the violin and piano. She was articulate and driven and clearly greater than the sum of her body parts.

By the mid-sixties Hollywood moved on from voluptuous sirens to the wholesome and gamin chic of women such as Hepburn and Hutton, Shrimpton and Twiggy. Mansfield was forced to adapt and she took her act to vaudeville and working men’s clubs. In 1967 those lucrative venues brought her to England for a series of shows that paid £3k per night. It wasn’t elegant, but it was enough money to buy a decent house after every show. Around this time, across the Irish Sea in Tralee Co. Kerry, the owners of the recently opened Mount Brandon Hotel were keen to gain publicity for their luxury hotel. Little did they know they were about to rattle the ghosts of the Holy Inquisition.

Despite Ireland’s War of Independence and eventual transition to a sovereign state, it could be argued that the country effectively swopped one master for another. Four hundred years after the Reformation and its brutal consequences in Ireland, the Catholic Church finally took back control of the population in a grip that would not ease until the advent of the 21st Century. The new order was not forged by the people of Ireland, the principles of its revolution or a committee of its elected representatives, rather it was stitched and sewed by Éamon de Valera under the watchful and influential eye of the Archbishop of Dublin, Dr John Charles McQuaid. While the rest of the world embraced the counterculture of the Swinging Sixties, the Catholic Church in Ireland steered a course that was diametrically opposed to secularism and liberal Christianity.

Archbishop John Charles McQuaid and Éamon de Valera (Photograph: Independent.ie)

John Charles McQuaid, Archbishop of Dublin and Primate of Ireland, was an influential churchman during the birth of modern Ireland. He played an important and persuasive role in the drafting of the constitution, so much so that a popular adage claims de Valera never made an important decision without first visiting the archbishop’s palace. McQuaid was the de facto head of the Catholic Church in the Republic of Ireland – the CEO to the Archbishop of Armagh’s chairmanship. He has since become legendary as a crusader who wished to mould the Irish state into a paragon of virtue under the medieval moral eye of the church.

Whatever opinion people hold today of the representatives of the church in this period, McQuaid’s stewardship is regarded by many as more Darth Vader than benevolent and pastoral administrator. Writer and critic Sean Ó Faoláin famously referred to Ireland in this austere period as ‘Dreary Eden’. Whether or not this is fair is largely dependent on those most affected by the stern policies of the church. The level to which the archbishop would go in controlling Irish Catholics was famously evident by his interfering in the lives of young girls. Historian, Dr Margaret Ó hÓgartaigh, writes: “The obsession with female fertility so concerned the archbishop that certain middle-class Catholic girls’ schools were discouraged from playing hockey since the twisting movements were alleged to cause ‘hockey parturition’, that is, infertility. Hence lacrosse was favoured. The latter activity did not necessitate as much midriff movement.” He strongly disapproved of the use of tampons, particularly for unmarried ‘persons’, and under his supervision Mná na hÉireann were encouraged by local priests to observe their reproductive duty.

Thus, while Europe embraced a decade of seismic social change, and the American Dream was in full swing across the Atlantic, Ireland and her institutions were governed beneath a shroud of orthodox conservatism. It’s not hard to imagine the archbishops reaction when, in April 1967, an aide brought news that a famous Hollywood siren was about to visit Kerry. O tempora, o mores!

The Brandon Hotel was a new and luxurious hotel in 1967, and when a Hollywood star began appearing at a venues just a short flight away the opportunity of publicity was too good to miss. Jayne Mansfield was the kind of star who might appear in the glitzy hotels of Las Vegas or California, so why not Tralee? The hotel was almost certain to gain international coverage. They wasted no time in offering £1k for a half-hour, six song appearance. Mansfield’s manager and partner, Sam Brody, immediately set about making arrangements to fly her to Shannon.

If ever there was a moment to be a fly on the wall the archbishop’s palace was the place to be. His immediate reaction can only be imagined, but he quickly contacted the Bishop of Kerry, Dr Denis Moynihan, and ordered him to put a stop to the show. Under no circumstances could she perform in Tralee and everyone involved needed to know that. Press coverage came like an avalanche on Sunday 23rd April, with the media camped out at Tralee and Shannon Airport. The hotel was resolute and Jayne Mansfield was in the air. Little did they know the empire was about to strike.

Sunday was showtime, and that morning the church went on the offensive with a series of blistering pulpit attacks. Monsignor John Lane, the Dean of Kerry, described her a “goddess of lust”. “I appeal,” he said, “to the men and women, to the boys and girls of Tralee, to dissociate themselves from this attempt to besmirch the name of our town for the sake of filthy gain. I ask the people to ignore the presence of this woman and her associates.” Bishop Moynihan described her as “spiritually harmful” and instructed his priests to inform their congregations “If you worship Christ in the morning you can't play with the Devil in the evening." These extraordinary denouncements invoked the medieval spirit of contemptus mundi (or contempt for the world), a sentiment that might protect Christians from carnal desire.

By mid-afternoon the febrile rhetoric had worked and the hotel capitulated with a statement: "Owing to the controversy caused by the visit of Jayne Mansfield, the management of the Mount Brandon Hotel has decided to cancel her appearance."

RTE interview at the Brandon Hotel

Mansfield and her manager were unaware of the developing drama when they touched down in Shannon Airport, but they were soon greeted by hordes of journalists, photographers and well-wishers. Roads in rural Ireland were rough and uneven in 1967, and in the two hour drive they picked up a flat tyre in in the town of Castleisland. Amid three hundred excited townspeople, Mansfield took the opportunity to visit the local church, light some candles and say a few prayers. Reputedly, and rather ironically, she was a practicing Catholic, though as a skilled publicist this act of devotion is open to interpretation.

A large and excited crowd awaited her in Tralee, and when she finally emerged from the car it was only a red carpet away from the Academy Awards. The crowd was just a big, the press just as eager. They hustled her inside, through the kitchen and into a room where a makeshift set had been arranged for the national broadcaster, RTE (see here). What followed was an awkward exchange as reporter, Bill O’Herlihy, concentrated on the church slurs in an effort to elicit a response. One of the hotel directors fumbled a new and very different story that claimed the van carrying the backing band from Dublin had broken down, and the real reason why the show was cancelled. In fact the band was local and at that very moment its members were in the hotel. Despite the clumsy interview, Mansfield remained dignified and bemused while a little dog played on her lap. She responded to questions about being labelled a “corrupting influence” and “goddess of lust” by describing her act as satirical and clean. She also maintained that if the music arrived she would still ‘go on”. But the show didn’t go on and the people of Tralee had to make do with the Jack and the Jackpots Showband. The original statement of ‘owing to the controversy’ was firmly transposed with the ‘missing band’ statement. The church had triumphed.

Ultimately the people of Tralee were spared eternal damnation and diabolical brimstone, with one woman famously remarking “It is much ado about nothing.” Outwardly perhaps, but the whole affair was a litmus test that highlighted the power of the Catholic Church in Ireland. It would later become more nuanced with allegations of duplicity by the church in covering up sexual and physical abuse at St Joseph's Industrial School in the town.

Tralee settled back into the pastoral rhythm of rural life and eventually grew into the modern and vibrant town it is today. It still hosts the internationally famous Rose of Tralee festival and remains a culturally important town in the history of the state. The Brandon Hotel was unscathed by cardinal sin and remains a popular resort for domestic and foreign guests. Archbishop McQuaid died in 1973, but just before he passed away he curiously asked a nurse if he would go to heaven. 2009 saw the publication of the Murphy Report into the sexual abuse scandal in his archdiocese, and this more than anything would finally loosen the grip of the church on Irish society. Jayne Mansfield returned to the United States to continue her cabaret act. The cyclonic anecdote in Ireland’s social history should have ended there, but two months later tragedy struck when the car she was travelling in ploughed under a truck just east of New Orleans. She was killed instantly, alongside her partner, Sam Cody, and their driver. Jayne Mansfield was just 34 years of age. Three of her children (including Mariska Hargitay, the multi-award winning star of Law and Order SVU) were asleep on the back seat. Somehow they managed to survive. Disturbingly, part of her legacy is indelibly linked to the manner of her death: all HGVs in North America and Europe are today fitted with mandatory underrun bars, otherwise known as Mansfield Bars.

© David O’Neill 2021

Rogue Wave

The seas grew and the wind veered in the long fetch up the Irish Sea. We put a third reef in the mainsail, but as the wind continued to rise we also needed to shorten our headsail. Waves shipped over the port bow and occasionally washed along the deck and into the cockpit. Everything outside the glow of the deck light was pitch black as we made our way forward, clinging to the weather guardrail as the boat nose-dived into unseen waves. With one arm around the pulpit, I unclipped the headsail and fed it back. We set a reefed-down jib and made our way aft. I was halfway back to the mast when something picked up our 34ft boat and slammed her on her side. The weather guardrail was torn from my hand and I slid down a vertical foredeck and underneath the starboard rail. Only my arms prevented me going all the way through. The boat was on her beams and I was in the water up to my chest.

It doesn’t take dramatic events to perish at sea. In all conditions your boat is a lifeboat and everything outside the guardrails is a hostile environment wholly incompatible to human survival. We’re starkly reminded of this when the sailing community loses some of its most distinguished members. Rob James, who raced across the Atlantic and won the Round Britain Race with his wife, Naomi, perished after falling through the netting of his trimaran when entering port. More recently the legendary French sailor, Éric Tabarly, was thrown over the side of Pen Duick when shortening sail in the Irish Sea. I remember meeting the great Frenchman in Kinsale, or at least I stood beside his boat and watched him cast an eye up the mast. I thought then that if I could choose to have one person with me in an Atlantic hurricane it would be him. How could this happen to an icon who twice raced around the world? Vulnerability, it seems, comes with unexpected events.

The greatest fear for any yachtsman is fire, being run-down by another vessel or colliding with a submerged object (an average of 1382 containers were lost at sea between 2008 and 2019 see video here). Storms are certainly taken seriously, but for a well-founded boat and experienced crew they are survivable events. But what if something extraordinary happens, something that no amount of experience can prepare you for? In 2013 a fast and seaworthy ocean going yacht disappeared in the Tasman Sea with the loss of seven lives. The Nina, a classic yacht that had seen many storms in a racing career spanning 85 years, was en-route to Australia when she encountered a fierce storm. She was under bare poles and making headway before losing all communication. After an extensive search she was considered lost with all hands.

The fate of Nina and her crew remains unexplained, but what is known is that severe storms are breeding grounds for what were once thought of as mythical waves. For that, we have plenty of empirical evidence. In the 1990’s, 40ft yacht Vyndi was caught off the coast of South Africa in 60ft breaking seas and winds gusting 70kts. This is where the fast easterly Agulhas Current meets the powerful westerly winds of the Southern Ocean. Vyndi was en-route from Capetown to Durban, when a wave of biblical proportions knocked her down so badly as to completely invert her. According to one of her crew, Rod Briggs, “We had been running ahead of a southerly gale and the course change at 0600 would have brought the marching seas even further astern; yet something, powerful enough to cross 60ft breaking seas, had picked us up and thrown us over like a toy” (Yachting World 2017). Vyndi lost two crew members when they were washed from the cockpit. Based on data at the time, the Oceanographic Research Institute’s model suggested the wave had to be 100ft if it were to cross 60ft seas.

Veteran yacht Winston Churchill suffered a similar experience in the ill-fated 1998 Sydney Hobart race. In this case she fell off a giant wave. "You can't punch through a wave that's, could be, I don't know what it was, but I would guess it was probably around 70-foot-high and then when you got to the top it breaks ... you've got no show,” said John Stanley, one of the crew members (9NEWS). They were literally fighting for their lives and battling 70kt winds and 20m waves. "Every now and again you'd hear this noise coming and it was a broken wave ... rumbling noise, just incredible and you think 'hang on, hang on. They were 40ft high and then you get this rogue one every now and again, which is normally two-and-a-half times as big.” The yacht was lost, together with two of her nine crew members.

Until the 1990s the scientific community was unconvinced about the existence of rogue waves. Many considered the anecdotes of alpine monsters as little more than tales from nautical mythology. That all changed on New Year’s Day 1995 when a laser range finder on the Draupner oil platform in the North Sea measured a gigantic wave of 25.6m (84ft) (see video here).

Rogue waves are categorised as unexpected large amplitude waves with a height 2-3 times the prevailing sea state. They can appear from nowhere and disappear just as quickly. They are thought to be formed when smaller waves are swallowed by faster waves, thus doubling the height. It’s now believed that many mysterious disappearances are as a result of such a phenomenon, especially when no distress calls have been issued. Whilst rogue waves can certainly come ashore, they should not be confused with storm surges, or large waves created by submarine geographical features. The 30m wave that appears regularly at Nazare, Portugal, is created by a deep canyon pointing like an arrow toward the town. Though enormous, there is nothing unexpected about the event.

Fastnet Lighthouse, the day after a heavy westerly gale. In 1985 it was struck by a rogue wave that smashed a section of glass 159ft above sea level

So what about Ireland’s Atlantic Coast? I know the south-west coastline well enough to know I’ll never know it well enough. In 1999, while waiting to be picked up by a RIB, a friend was swept away by a rogue wave from one of the Blasket Islands. Conditions at the time were not considered particularly dangerous, though Ireland’s Atlantic coastline is always capable of producing extraordinary wave events.

In March 1861, a ferocious storm hit Eagle Island, Co. Mayo. According to the Commissioners of Irish Light, “[…] at midday the light room of the East tower was struck by the sea smashing 23 panes, washing some of the lamps down the stairs, and damaging the reflectors with broken glass beyond repair. It must have been an incredible wave to have come up 133 feet of rock and then a further 87 feet of lighthouse tower to cause so much damage. In spite of the efforts of the Keepers to repair the damage, it wasn't until the night of the 12th that the light was restored and then only with 12 lamps and reflectors.” So much water entered the tower that the keepers were unable to open the door at the base. They were forced to drill holes to let the water out.

The Calf Rock lighthouse, west of Dursey Island, was mostly washed away in 1881 by a wave large enough to climb more than 160ft. Fortunately, the six keepers were safely huddled together in the base, but they remained there for a further twelve days before a heroic rescue mission could be carried out (this event has been categorised as a storm surge). The iconic Fastnet Lighthouse (pictured above) has experienced some of the worst weather ever to assault the Irish coastline. In 1985 it was struck by a wave that reached the light 48m (157ft) above sea level. It crashed through the glass and sent a vat of toxic mercury down the stairs.

Of course not just lighthouses are assaulted by rogue waves; the Renvyle House Hotel in Connemara was badly damaged by an enormous wave in January 1991 when, according to its owner, “a tidal wave (sic) had hurled rocks and stones.” (Irish Independent, 7 January 1991). In 1914, the island of Iniskeeragh, lying off the north-west Donegal coast, suffered considerable damage to property when a gigantic wave entirely engulfed the island. According to reports, “the residents heard a roar of water before it arrived”.

Thanks to Ireland’s Marine Institute, we now have a growing catalogue of contemporary evidence for rogue waves. They manage a network of weather buoys in collaboration with Met Éireann and the UK Met Office. Besides providing data for weather forecasting, they also collect valuable research material. Five buoys, M2 – M6, collect evidence from strategically placed positions around our coast. In addition, five wave buoys collect data for the Ocean Energy Programme, and a Datawell Waverider buoy is anchored in 40m of water 3.7km northwest of Killard Point, Co. Clare. Some of the results are staggering. In 2014, the buoy at Killard recorded a wave measuring 33.96m (111.41ft), though it should be pointed out that this reading has been called into doubt. However, there was no doubt in March 2016 when, during Storm Jake, the Belmullet Berth B wave buoy recorded a massive wave of 30.96m (101.57ft). And when Storm Ophelia hit Ireland in October 2017, the Kinsale Energy gas platform recorded a wave measuring 26.1m (85ft). More recently, in October 2020 during Hurricane Epsilon, Buoy M6 recorded a 30m wave (98ft). That wave is of epic proportions when we consider M6 is 389km west-southwest of Slyne Head and anchored at a depth of 3000m.

Breaking seas on Croa-Lea which is 30 metres below low water. Despite appearances, this is not a rogue wave. Photographed the day after a storm in 2016 when the Fastnet (somewhere in the background) recorded winds in excess of 105 knots (121mph)

The evidence is growing, together with academic interest in wave events around Ireland (see O’Brien et al 2013), and that helps our understanding of how and under what conditions rogue waves are likely to form. The practical implications of this research and data helps to explain the effect of these waves on our coastline, particularly with regards to safety for anglers and walkers. Greater awareness of rogue waves and how they can sweep ledges high above the water, often in benign conditions, can ultimately save lives. However, for those who sail or work offshore it will always be impossible to predict the unpredictable.

Back in 1975 I had no idea what hit us that night. Perhaps the boat fell off a wave, or was hit by a powerful squall. She lay on her beam-ends and I could do nothing until she finally pulled herself up, taking me with her. A crewmate was above me with an arm around the mast and another reaching down to help. Other than a mess from un-stowed items below (and a few bruises for those off watch) there was no obvious damage. Only when we returned to the cockpit did we discover that a wave struck us amidships, thirty degrees variation from the prevailing wave direction. Our experience that night was minor compared to those mentioned above, but in researching this article I was drawn to a 2011 incident when the 81m cargo ship, Swanland, was struck by “an enormous wave” that broke her back. The ship sank off Bardsey Island, North Wales, killing five of its eight crew. The wave was reported to be 15m (49ft). Though a gale was blowing at the time and the tide around Bardsey Island can be fierce, this event highlights the fact that rogue waves do indeed exist in the Irish Sea.

The knowledge that monsters inhabit our oceans might deter most people from ever stepping off land, but we are an island nation and seafaring has been in our blood since people first arrived on our shores. Besides, one wave cannot define the sea any more than one nightmare defines our dreams.

© David O’Neill 2021

Rural Odyssey - Kilcatherine

Sadly we only completed one tour this year, but (when allowed) we had plenty of time to explore. For a country the size of Indiana, Ireland is remarkably continental in its diversity. Nowhere is this more evident than across the Beara Peninsula where you can never predict what’s around the next bend.

The medieval church of Kilcatherine dates back to the 12th century. Curiously, it’s called Caitighearn’s Church, but the parish of Kilcatherine (the Church of Catherine) refers to St Catherine of Alexandria and she is one of the most venerated saints in Ireland (St Catherine’s Bed is one of the six penitential beds at Lough Derg). St Catherine is also considered the patron saint of seafaring so it’s probably not surprising that her cult is pervasive in coastal parishes.

The church is aligned east-west (traditional for a medieval church) with the altar beneath the east window, facing the rising sun and leading to an obvious metaphorical conclusion. There’s also a piscine in one of the walls where the priest would have washed the sacred vessels used in the mass.

One remarkable feature is an apotropaic carved head protruding above the entrance. These carved heads are quintessential to medieval churches, but this one is rare in the length of its neck. The facial features are still apparent despite eight hundred years of erosion. Remedial work has been carried out around the doorway.

A three-chambered souterrain, discovered in 1990, indicates a possible early-Christian monastery on the site, and a carved stone cross in the graveyard also dates to a much earlier period.

Scattered throughout the graveyard are small, low-down stone markers. This is characteristic of West Cork graveyards and illustrates the poverty of those parishioners who couldn’t afford headstones. Twice last year we scoured remote graveyards with Irish-American guests in an effort to locate the resting place of their ancestors. It’s incredibly moving when we find them. Caitighearn’s Church was abandoned in the turbulent 17th century.

© David O’Neill 2021

Murder at the Castle

Imperiously perched on a rocky outcrop in the middle of the River Lee, Carrigadrohid Castle is one of the most spectacular tower houses in Ireland. It may not be the largest or best preserved, but it radiates a medieval air even after five centuries of decay.

Carrigadrohid Castle

Tower houses were popular with Gaelic lords, which is ironic considering they initially sprang up around the Pale as a means of protecting Dublin from the very same people. Fortified dwellings had been around since the Celts arrived a thousand years earlier, but these modest and relatively inexpensive buildings served multiple purposes: primarily as fortified homes, but also as a means to control trade and the passage of people. The latter secured revenue streams and underlined the power and legitimacy of local families. In this respect Carrigadrohid was a fine accomplishment indeed. It was built by the powerful McCarthy family sometime around 1450, and as overlords of the entire south-west it’s perhaps not surprising they chose this defensible position in the River Lee. Two hundred years later it was garrisoned with Confederate forces and about to enter the most notorious period of its history.

“Upon all of us there still lies the ‘curse of Cromwell’ ”

— Winston Churchill

Ireland is littered with tragedy, perhaps never greater than a lost battle on Christmas Eve 1601. The Battle of Kinsale was the culmination of the Nine Years War and it marked the end of Gaelic Ireland and the beginning of a new era of conquest. The 17th Century would be marked by a new era of slaughter, the dispossession of land and continued plantation of a foreign culture and religion. In 1649, less than fifty years after the events at Kinsale, a man would step ashore at Dublin and go on to cement his place in Irish psyche as no less than Lucifer himself. Even Winston Churchill wrote “Upon all of us there still lies the ‘curse of Cromwell’”. But Cromwell is the poster boy for atrocity in Ireland: his real legacy lies in the persecution of Catholic Ireland through dispossession and plantation, and that was to have far greater consequences than his infamy at Drogheda. In the eight years before Cromwell arrived, slaughter had become a common theme in the Confederate War. Just two years previously, Murrough O'Brien, Baron Inchiquin, sacked Cashel and put to sword 600 of the garrison and almost 400 civilians. Perhaps this level of brutality was to be expected from Cromwell, but he made certain his tactics, and those of his lieutenants, were of such severity as to strike terror into the hearts of anyone who opposed him.

Confederate Ireland was a loosely held force of Catholics and Royalists, neither trusting the other but for now united under threat from a mutual enemy. Owen Roe O’Neill’s great success at Benburb in 1646 was followed by crushing defeats of the Confederate Leinster and Munster armies at Dungan’s Hill and Knocknanauss respectively. The Confederacy was still alive, barely, but after the regicide of Charles 1 in 1649, Cromwell was about to strike.

Oliver Cromwell came to Ireland for three reasons: to supress the Royalist cause, to destroy what was left of Confederate Ireland and to seek revenge for the massacre of English and Scottish settlers in 1641 and 1642 (he mistakenly believed those responsible were now in Drogheda). But Cromwell was not just on a military mission, his was a divine crusade motivated by a pathological hatred of Catholicism. Every success reinforced his belief that God was pleased with his efforts. He crushed Drogheda and Wexford and went on to besiege Waterford, Kilkenny and Clonmel. And it was at Clonmel that he faced his sternest test, thanks largely to the determined resistance of Hugh Dubh O’Neill. But Cromwell was needed back in England and time was of the essence, so when news arrived that a Confederate relief force of 1400 men was on route from Kerry, he ordered Roger Boyle to intercept.

Roger Boyle, Lord Broghill, 1st Earl of Orrery, was a soldier and politician well known for his hostility towards Catholics. His father was the Earl of Cork, and one of his brothers, Robert Boyle, is credited as a founder of modern chemistry and famous today for Boyles Law. Along with a number of other Anglo-Irish aristocrats, Broghill wavered between Parliamentarian and Royalist causes (though in 1649 he was a friend and enthusiastic supporter of Cromwell). Following successes in Kilkenny and Cork, he marched his army towards Macroom with the intention of intercepting the Confederate relief force under the command of Colonel Roche. Alongside him rode Major Nelson, a successful cavalry officer and victor at the Battle of Arklow.

Boetius MacEgan was born in North Cork sometime after the Battle of Kinsale and probably around the time of the Flight of the Earls in 1607. He was educated in Spain and later joined the Franciscan order. By 1630 he had returned to Ireland where, over the next fifteen years, he was promoted to various positions of importance that culminated in the bishopric of Ross in 1648. As an educated cleric he would have been acutely aware of how Gaelic Christianity created the fabric and architecture of a culture that propelled Ireland into a unique intellectual powerhouse. Indeed, as far back as the 6th Century the monastic School of Ross, now his own Diocese of Ross, was regarded as one of the great universities in Europe. The church and Gaelic Ireland had survived much since then: internecine battles, the Vikings, the Normans, the Reformation and the more recent Tudor Plantation. The plantation caused such slaughter and starvation (30,000 killed in a ‘scorched earth policy’) as to prompt Elizabeth 1 to remark of her generals “I find that I sent wolves not shepherds to govern Ireland, for they have left me nothing but ashes and carcasses to reign over”. Boetius MacEgan had witnessed many seismic events in his lifetime, including the Plantation of Ulster and subsequent arrival of Undertakers (new landowners who ‘undertook’ to populate their land with English and Scottish settlers). He lived at a time of outrages such as the execution in 1612 of Cornelius O’Devony, Catholic bishop of Down and Connor, who was hung, drawn and quartered on fabricated charges of treason. O’Devony was almost eighty years of age. Now, in the fragile Confederation of Kilkenny, a thin thread of hope remained for Gaelic Ireland and MacEgan wholeheartedly threw himself into its support. By the time he was appointed Bishop of Ross, he was rallying troops and acting as army chaplain (he was with O’Neill at Benburb). Ultimately, in 1650, he found himself in Kerry with Colonel David Roche encouraging a relief force to come to the aid of the besieged Confederates at Clonmel.

David Roche and Bishop MacEgan departed Kerry in May 1650 with a force of 1400 men. Lord Broghill commanded similar numbers of infantry, but with the addition of 500 cavalrymen his army was clearly superior. At some stage Roche, realising his disadvantage, turned back for the mountains of Kerry where he might give himself an even chance. But there was no escaping Broghill and his cavalry and they finally met at Macroom on 10th May. The battle became an inevitable rout with Roche’s army fleeing in disarray. Various sources claim 600 killed and 20 taken prisoner. Whatever the number, Boetius MacEgan was one of those prisoners.

Original bridge was of wooden construction and most likely a footbridge

“Rather than suffer a Gaelic surrender, Bishop MacEgan implored his fellow Confederates to stand fast”

Broghill now turned his attention to the remaining Confederate force at Carrigadrohid. The day after the battle he dispatched Major Nelson and a detachment of soldiers. They took Bishop MacEgan with them. Sources are somewhat sketchy as to the precise circumstances, but all agree that the bishop was to be used as a bargaining chip, willingly or unwillingly, in the negotiation to surrender the castle. MacEgan was well known for his ability to rally troops and he might equally be influential in convincing the garrison to surrender. Either way he was offered his life if he went along. It’s tempting to imagine what he was thinking as they made their way along the banks of the River Lee. The battle was over, the relief force destroyed and Clonmel certain to fall into Cromwell’s hands. The small Confederate force at Carrigadrohid could have no major impact on the war. The sensible course of action was to request a surrender and trust Major Nelson not to put the garrison to the sword. Whatever his thoughts, Bishop MacEgan was resolute on a course of action that would capture all the drama of a Shakespearian play.

Exactly who was to petition the garrison to surrender is unclear, though there was no doubt about what would happen to the bishop should they fail to comply. MacEgan, in a supreme act of defiance, implored his fellow confederates to stand fast. No one knows for sure if there was any further negotiation, but Nelson ordered him hung from a nearby tree. Without rope or any other means, they cut the reins from the bishop’s own horse and hung him in full view of the garrison.

Ultimately the garrison surrendered, whether in light of their lost cause or threat from heavy cannon. Their lives were spared. The bishop’s remains were later removed by his followers and taken to the cemetery at nearby Aghinagh. Of course Cromwell’s expedition was successful and his plantation went ahead. Roman Catholicism was banned and Catholic priests forced to leave Ireland or face execution. Under the Act for the Settlement Catholic-owned land was confiscated and awarded to settlers, Parliament's creditors, and up to twelve-thousand soldiers of Cromwell’s New Model Army. These settlers took the lush fertile lands of the midlands and east, while others returned to England and sold their land to speculators. With up to 41% of the population dead, most of the surviving Irish were pushed west of the Shannon onto rock-infested land no one else wanted. Those that remained became subservient to a new landowning class.

An interesting anecdote relates to an English traveller some twenty years later. He wrote of visiting many of Cromwell’s former soldiers and was shocked to note that not only had they adopted Irish custom and married Irish women, but their offspring could not speak a word of English. One can only imagine how much this would have pleased Bishop MacEgan.

© David O’Neill 2020

Memorial at Aghinagh Cemetery

Of Druids and Christians and the Holy Well at Liscannor

The holy well at Liscannor is a meeting of Christianity and ancient Celtic belief.

According to an archaeological survey there are more than 3,000 holy wells in Ireland. Whilst many are attributed to St Patrick and one or two other notable Catholic saints, most are dedicated to St Brigid. She’s known as Mother of the Gael and she is patron saint to dairying - a strong signal to fertility and rebirth. Her feast day, 1st February, neatly coincides with Imbolc, a pagan festival that traditionally marks the first day of spring and the time of the Celtic goddess Brigit (or Brigid). The pagan goddess is associated with poetry, fertility and healing. So which one do people turn to when they come to these wells?

For almost a thousand years Druidry was a powerful force in Gaelic culture, and regardless of the new Christian faith that spread to Ireland in the 5th Century it would not easily be dismissed. If the relatively new religion was to gain traction, it needed to surreptitiously align itself with pagan festivals. Thus, Saint Brigid assumed the qualities and attributes of the goddess Brigit and continued to maintain the feast day (also known in Ireland as Pattern or Patron days). So perhaps it’s to both figures that people pay homage, because what we’re looking at is a seamless narrative of 2500 years of Irish cultural history.

What’s striking about this particular well is the amount of votive offerings. The little cavern is filled with thousands of items including icons, rosary beads, photographs and other personal memorabilia that are left there in the hope of supernatural intervention. Outside, above the well, a rag-tree is adorned with pieces of cloth, plastic or anything else that came to hand when someone made a prayer or asked favour of the saint, goddess or both. This particular tree is a fuchsia, but they are normally hawthorn (sceach or whitethorn) and sometimes ash. Traditionally the sick would rub a piece of cloth on their body, dip it into the holy water and tie it to a nearby tree. The afflicted are cured when the rags rot and fall away. But rag-trees are not always beside holy wells, and because they’re mostly hawthorn there is a powerful association with faeries who use these trees as meeting places. Here, people tie pieces of cloth and make a wish to the faeries.

Little has changed in two and a half thousand years, whether the ancient veneration of a Celtic goddess, fifth century saint or faeries and sacred trees. In votive offerings the Celts consigned some of their most beautiful valuables into lakes and bogs in the belief they were portals to the Other World, and to this day we continue the custom by tossing coins into fountains and wells. And just as the Druids guarded ancient oak groves in fealty to the tree gods, perhaps our patronage to the holy well conserves an ancient Irish custom.

At first you might imagine the grotto is filled with sorrow and superstition, but maybe it’s the traditional rhythm of Irish pastoral life and we the baton carriers through time.

The lake is not burdened by its swan, a steed by its bridle, or a man by the soul that is in him - Old Irish proverb.

© David O’Neill 2018

Raid on the Fastnet

Irish Road Tours is fortunate to overlook Long Island Bay and the Fastnet Rock. Here’s another extraordinary story from our blog

Fastnet

The most southerly point of Ireland lies eight miles south of the Cork coastline and four miles southwest of Cape Clear Island. The Fastnet Rock Lighthouse is an Irish icon, the most famous of all lighthouses and the only one to have a sea area named after it. The elegant Cornish-granite tower stretches taller and wider than any lighthouse in Ireland or Britain. It looks like an artist’s impression of what a lighthouse should look like, or something da Vinci might call The Vitruvian Lighthouse.

There isn’t a sailor in the world who hasn’t heard of Fastnet, or its fearsome reputation. Since 2017 it holds the record for the highest wind speed ever recorded in Ireland: 191km/h during Storm Ophelia. At the same time the nearby Kinsale Energy Platform recorded a wave of 26.1m (85.6ft). In 1985 a rogue wave smashed a section of glass 49m (160ft) above sea level, crashed through the light room and sent a vat of toxic mercury down the stairs. Even in calm weather a heavy swell around the Rock can make landing difficult and hazardous. It’s therefore remarkable that in 1921, during the War of Independence, a small party of Irish Volunteers carried out a surprising and audacious raid.

Cork brigades were no strangers to daring raids. Hostilities broke out in the county prior to the official outbreak of the War of Independence. This led to the brigades being better armed and organised than in any other county. Cork IRA units were the first to capture an RIC barracks, an entire British Army barracks and even a Royal Navy warship (though this was only temporary).

Lighthouses used gun cotton and detonators for fog signals, but they could also be used to manufacture road mines. IRA Intelligence revealed that surplus quantities were stored in lighthouses rather than land-based depots in the belief that they would be more secure. A successful raid on Mizen Head Fog Station in 1920 yielded significant quantities of gun cotton and detonators. British Forces were alert to a possible, albeit unlikely, raid on the Fastnet. To bolster defences the coastguard station in Schull housed well-armed Royal Marines, and every night the Royal Navy despatched a warship from Casletownbere to patrol the coast from Castlehaven to Bantry Bay.

Waves assaulting ‘the rock’

Despite these security measures, five men set out from Long Island on a Sunday afternoon in early June - the raid had been planned for the previous night but sea conditions were considered too dangerous. The party arrived on Cape Clear Island and met with six others, including Schull Battalion O/C, Sean Lehane. From a vantage point on the western tip of the island they watched the regular Royal Navy warship sweep up from the direction of Crookhaven, circle the Fastnet and head back towards Mizen Head. The little group of volunteers returned to their boat, the Máire Cáit, and finally put to sea. If intercepted they planned to explain themselves as fishermen, which was true for six of the party.

They slipped out of the North Harbour at sunset, turned southwest and made for the flash of the Fastnet light. An hour later the Máire Cáit approached the rock. It was now midnight and John O’Regan stepped onto the bow with a rope around his waist. “He’d to time his leap to a nicety,” said Sean O’Driscoll, O/C Ballydehob Company, “and as a lazy wave erupted its strength from the fathoms deep foundations of the rock, our boat rose high over the landing place”. He leaped from the bow, made the landing and quickly hauled in his companions. They made their way to the base of the lighthouse where they found an open door. Winding stairs led to the light-room above and it was here they discovered the keeper on duty. The remaining two keepers were brought into the lighthouse and sat down to talk. “We parleyed,” recounted one volunteer, “and Sean Lehane informed him that we had come for the guncotton”.

Long Island in the foreground

Once they gained access to the store they used the supply davits to load the Máire Cáit, a task made more difficult with the boat rising and falling with the swell of the sea. In half an hour they managed to seize seventeen boxes of guncotton and three of detonators.

With the boat loaded, the volunteers pushed off and set a course for Long Island, one of many small isles scattered between the mainland and Cape Clear. Seven miles of open water separated them from the relative safety of the shallow waters and hidden reefs that surrounded the islands. The Máire Cáit entered Long Island Sound just as the lights of the warship appeared once more in its sweep back towards the Fastnet. It was close but the timing couldn’t have been better. They put in at Leamcon, a famous pirate lair in the 17th Century, cached the haul and disappeared into the night. Several days later a ton of guncotton and detonators was distributed throughout the brigade.

Long Island and Long Island Sound (on a fine day)

This story, and many other extraordinary events that occurred during the War of Independence, may have been lost in time were it not for a condition of the government that obliged people to record their wartime activities in order to qualify for a state pension.

© David O’Neill 2018

Originally published in Ireland’s Own, May 2016

Ireland to the Oval Office

From our base in West Cork, Irish Road Tours does not have to travel far to uncover some remarkable stories.

Croagh Bay West Cork

It’s easy to presuppose the background of successful Irish-American emigrants and their families: flight from famine, perilous Atlantic crossings and the slow and steady rise from the slums of Boston and New York. We love to read success stories, especially those that result in American presidents returning to their Irish roots.

Standing beside a nettle-infested ruin makes a refugee’s plight palpable, their journey intrepid and achievement heroic. One such place is Croagh Bay (pronounced Crew), a little inlet off Long Island Sound, Schull, Co. Cork. At low tide a salt marsh and exposed mud banks provide food for a variety of wading birds. Smart holiday homes occupy much of the western side, though even in the summer months the bay is relatively quiet.

The bay has seen much since prehistoric times, evidence of which remains in a ring fort and nearby tuama dingeach, or wedge-shaped tomb, one of twelve on the Mizen peninsular. Well-documented stories depict Barbary pirates and rapacious planters who filled the vacuum left by the departing chieftain, Conogher O’Mahony, in 1602.

But it’s the ruined cottages that evoke the darkest period of the bay’s history. Indeed, the parish of Schull, population eighteen-thousand prior to 1845, was to suffer the worst and most peculiar of Irelands Great Hunger, details of which are too graphic to relate here.

Famine Cottages near Croagh Bay

Thus Croagh Bay is the departure point of one emigrant sometime after the famine. Michael Leahy survived an Atlantic crossing and eventually settled down in Iowa. He became a successful lawyer and fought in the American Civil War. Like many Irish emigrants, he never forgot his origins from the tight knit community in the little bay in a remote part of Ireland. Michael found jobs for the men of Croagh Bay and one-by-one the families departed until there was almost no one left. Philanthropy may not be unique among successful emigrants, nor the subsequent prosperity of future generations, but unbeknownst to Michael the success of his offspring was about to precede that of Patrick Kennedy and Michael O'Regan’s great-grandsons. Perhaps not in presidential form, but no less meteoric.

William D Leahy was born in Iowa in 1875.  According to his memoir he wished to follow his father’s army footsteps but instead joined the United States Naval Academy. He served with distinction from 1898 to 1902 and saw action in the Spanish-American War, the Philippine American War and the Boxer Rebellion in China. He quickly rose through the ranks to become a naval aide to President Taft, and later formed a close friendship with the then Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Franklin D Roosevelt. He achieved flag rank in 1927 and ultimately Vice Admiral in 1937. It wasn’t long before he became Chief of Naval Operations.

Following a brief stint as Governor of Puerto Rico, Leahy was appointed Ambassador to France. He was recalled in 1942 and promoted to Chief of Staff under President Roosevelt. Ultimately, in 1944, he became the first US Fleet Admiral.

William Leahy

William Leahy was a quiet and modest man, and as Roosevelt and Truman’s closest advisor he warned against using the atomic bomb. He explains in his memoir: "It is my opinion that the use of this barbarous weapon at Hiroshima and Nagasaki was of no material assistance in our war against Japan. The Japanese were already defeated and ready to surrender because of the effective sea blockade and the successful bombing with conventional weapons." He went on to say, "In being the first to use it, we had adopted an ethical standard common to the barbarians of the Dark Ages".

William Leahy published his memoir I Was There in 1950, and his life was later recorded in a biography Witness to Power. He died in 1959, aged eight-four, and was interred in Arlington National Cemetery. However, the United States Navy had not finished with him and in 1962 the guided missile destroyer USS Leahy was named after him. Thus began a class of ships that became known as Leahy-class cruisers.

Croagh Bay is quiet now and mostly populated with Oystercatchers and Sandpipers that feed off exposed mud banks at low tide. If William Leahy ever visited his family’s homeland, and walked down the narrow boreen that skirts the bay, he may just have passed the ruined cottage where his father was born.

© David O’Neill 2018

Originally published in Ireland’s Own, September 2016

The Exquisite Spectacle of Barry Lyndon

The geography of Ireland has influenced art and literature since Celts first visited our shores. It’s therefore unsurprising that so many movies are made here. Star Wars, Braveheart (even though they were only partially filmed in Ireland), Educating Rita, Michael Collins and The Wind the Shakes the Barley to name just a few. And then there are the classics such as The Quiet Man, Ryan’s Daughter, Moby Dick and The Blue Max. But there’s one film that’s hardly ever mentioned, and it’s directed by arguably the greatest director of all time. That director is Stanley Kubrick and this is a brief description of his Irish film.

Courtesy of SK Film Archives LLC, Warner Bros and University of Arts, London

The Exquisite Spectacle of Barry Lyndon

William Makepeace Thackeray is best remembered for writing fiction, though his travels around Ireland, related in An Irish Sketchbook, remain an important anecdote in the narrative of Irish history. Vanity Fair was his seminal work, and a book Stanley Kubrick was keen to adapt into film before realising the impossibility of reproducing such an enormous canvass in a limited timeframe. That the great director turned to Thackeray’s lesser work, The Luck of Barry Lyndon, is more by accident than desire. The book has a strong narrative based on the real life exploits of Andrew Robinson Stoney, an Anglo-Irish, rakish adventurer who went on to marry into Elizabeth the Queen Mother’s Bowes-Lyon family. Thackeray’s Barry Lyndon, written in the first person, is a jaunty cad with a comic turn who at the very least fits suspiciously well into a contemporary stereotype. That the upstart Lyndon, clearly unqualified and certainly undeserving of English aristocracy, is born of and tragically returns to a metaphorical Wellington stable seems inevitable.

Barry Lyndon is an emotionally uninvolved character who becomes more isolated and undefined as the narrative progresses. This narrowing exposition of the central figure was something audiences and critics were unprepared for in 1975. At that time the movement of Lyndon from protagonist to antagonist and back to protagonist was too opaque and failed to stimulate empathy in filmgoers. Ultimately, the film achieved only partial commercial success despite the presence of Ryan O’Neal (Warner Bros insisted on a top ten Hollywood star). Yet the film went on to win four out of seven Academy Award nominations, one of which, unsurprisingly, went to John Alcott for Best Cinematography. Thus, unfulfilled expectation in the narrative was brushed aside in favour of aesthetics. And what aesthetics. It has the sumptuous quality of a Gainsborough, which precisely what Kubrick intended, and his fanatical creativity with lighting and legendary attention to detail make this film one of the finest ever made.

Like Gainsborough we are constantly pulled back to the artistic brushstroke of the director with gorgeous scenes and stunning locations. The entire movie is like crushed velvet, a sumptuous tapestry of unchecked vision and raw talent. Kubrick was in his element, every bit the master of art and the aesthetic. Working in natural light, he wanted to extend that indoors and was pedantic enough to get his hands on a specially adapted Zeiss lens designed for NASA’s satellite photography and Apollo moon landings. This enabled him to shoot the famous candlelight scenes quite literally by candlelight alone. The actors could barely move so as not to go out of focus. This creativity resulted in take after take, allegedly up to a hundred retakes in one scene, and most of the time there were no stand-ins. If this was an ordeal for the actors, it was a nightmare for the producers and only compounded by shooting on location.

Perhaps it’s those Irish locations we remember best, in particular Powerscourt House which was burned down a few months after the film was made. Hence we have the only celluloid record of the interior, a fact alone that makes this film important. Other locations included Dublin Castle, Waterford Castle, Moorstown Castle and the ubiquitous Cahir Castle. Most of the film was shot in Ireland until Kubrick was threatened with assassination or kidnap, allegedly by the IRA on account of filming British soldiers on Irish soil. Whatever the veracity of the threat, the entire production moved to England and the majestic locations of Blenheim Palace, Castle Howard (remember Brideshead Revisited) and the glorious gardens of Stourhead in Wiltshire.

Thackeray was a great writer with a keen eye, but it was the genius of Stanley Kubrick that created a gloriously upholstered masterpiece of cinema, almost all of which was shot in Ireland.

David O’Neill